


The Side Effect

by fernsintheforest



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathtub Sex, M/M, Neediness, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sex Dreams, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension, geralt's viagra potion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:41:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23980228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fernsintheforest/pseuds/fernsintheforest
Summary: Geralt's antidote for griffin poison has some unexpected side effects.AKA: Geralt gets sexually frustrated over a dream he has about Jaskier, and decides to do something about it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 239





	The Side Effect

**Author's Note:**

> So geraskier is ruining my life right now and i needed to write a fic where some of that obvious sexual tension gets resolved because I can't wait for season two. We all know Geralt yelled at Jaskier on the mountain because he's so dang sexually frustrated.  
> DISCLAIMER....i don't know anything about griffins and couldn't be bothered to search if they could be poisonous or not. We all know you're not reading this fic for mythical creature fun facts, anyway lol.

Geralt didn’t even want to go after a griffin, anyway.  
He hadn’t wanted to kill it. In fact, he didn’t really ever have plans of actually slaying it once he got there. It had snatched up some no-account villager’s baby in the town a few miles away from the mountain, so of course, Geralt was given the usual, “I want it dead; whatever the price.” So he and Jaskier went to the mountain, which was littered with the telltale signs of a nesting griffin, and began to formulate a plan to preserve it. Maybe he could injure it just enough to frighten it off.  
But, unsurprisingly, the griffin did not love the prospect of a Witcher entering it’s nest. The brawl lasted almost an hour, and by the end of it, the griffin’s head was tumbling down the side of the mountain, and Geralt was cut up in nearly every place by it’s razor-sharp claws.There had been no choice but to slay it. It had been angered into a fury and would have gone into a rampage had he not decapitated it.  
In large doses, Geralt knew, the poison of a griffin claw had the potential to kill. As the heat of the battle wore off, Geralt’s vision began to swim, and he began to worry if his many scratches were mounting up to be a deadly amount.  
He had a vial with him that he had had the foresight to bring in this case, but it came with a price. It would prevent the poison spreading too badly before his heightened Witcher healing could stop it. If he drank it now, he would fall into a coma-like sleep for an hour or so while the poison was chased from his system by the antidote. Normally, Geralt wouldn’t be worried. But at the foot of the mountain, he knew Jaskier was sitting with a notebook and a lute in his lap, coming up with the victory song he would sing in the town’s tavern. He didn’t want to leave the bard defenseless for the time that it would take for him to heal.  
His vision blurred out again, and he gripped his stomach as a sharp pain shot through it. His scratches burned mercilessly. He knew what he had to do, and he didn’t have long to do it.  
Popping the top off of the vial, he guzzled down the three swallows of bitter, blue-ish liquid, and began to limp down the way he came as fast as he could. He wouldn’t have much time before the potion took effect. For most of the descent down the jagged path, he felt like he was falling, and stumbled several times. Finally, he determined grass beneath his boots.  
Jaskier was sitting by Roach, waiting expectantly. He smiled the smile he always did when Geralt came back from a fight. Normally, that smile rejuvenated his exhaustion and made the fight feel worth it. But now, Geralt could barely see it through his blurred vision.  
“I guess when you told it ‘Don’t lose your head,’ it should have listened a little better,” the bard joked, pointing to the severed creature head that still bled a steady pool on the ground. When Geralt didn’t laugh, Jaskier frowned. “Well, at least I thought it was funny when I thought of it.”  
Every inch of Geralt ached. He fell to his knees and sank heavily against a cold rock wall of the mountain, breathing deeply, trying to stay conscious for just a moment longer.  
“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, his voice trembling with worry, “Are you okay?”  
The bard rushed forward, kneeling by the Witcher’s side. His eyes were wide as he shakily reached to assess his wounds, desperately trying to determine which one was causing him to faint.  
“J...Jaskier…” the Witcher barely managed, extending a hand weakly out to him. It felt as if his hand was made of lead. “...Wait...for...me…”  
Jaskier’s panicked cry was the last thing he heard.  
‘Geralt!”  
And then it went dark.

Geralt dreamt of Jaskier.  
His potion-tainted dreams were visceral and real, feeling more like hallucinations than sleep. The color of the world was brightly-saturated and pulsating. The sky was melting. The grass was green fire.  
Jaskier was naked.  
“ _Geralt_ …”  
The bard knelt before him, not a stitch of cloth on his body, running his hands slowly, tantalizing, desperately up the Witcher’s chest. Geralt didn’t feel his scars. All he felt was pure pleasure.  
“ _Touch me, Geralt_.” Jaskier begged, straddling the Witcher’s leg, “ _Please_.”  
He wanted to. Oh, he wanted so badly to grab ahold of the bard’s face and press it against his own, dominating his mouth and kissing down his jawline to his neck, savoring it’s taste. But he felt frozen in place, like his body was made of stone instead of flesh.  
Jaskier moaned and slowly bucked his hips up Geralt’s thigh, wrapping his naked legs around the Witcher’s waist and rolling against his groin, holding on to Geralt’s shoulders. He kissed his neck, moaning softly into his ear.  
“ _Please, Geralt_ ,” he begged desperately, “ _Why won’t you touch me?_ ”  
Geralt’s cock was stiffening at the stimulation, but it was maddening not being able to move or speak as Jaskier pleaded for the touch that Geralt was dying to give him.  
The feeling built in him, higher and higher, until he felt like he was going to explode from the pressure. His cock ached from the dry grinding but receiving no direct stimulation. And Jaskier was still begging and moaning in a soft whisper into his ear, his breath sending chills shooting down his back.  
The bard’s hand traveled down his chest and abs, breaching his waistband and wrapping his fingers around the circumference of Geralt’s thick cock. He stroked slowly at first, then faster, and Geralt began to see stars.  
The pressure grew to its peak, getting stronger and stronger until finally--

Geralt jerked awake with a gasp.  
Jaskier fell backwards in surprise, eyes wide, mouth hanging open--and fully clothed. Tears streaked his pink cheeks and his eyes were shiny with endless tears. He had been holding Geralt, not in the way he had been in his dream, not by a long shot, but seemingly had been holding the Witcher in an embrace around the shoulders, kneeling beside his outstretched legs.  
“Geralt, you…” Jaskier sniffed, his voice congested from crying, “you’re alive!”  
The bard leapt forward and crushed him into a hug again, pressing their chests together. Geralt could feel every one of his wounds now, but more pressingly, his throbbing erection against his trousers. He slammed his legs together, hoping to the gods that Jaskier had been too preoccupied with his grief to notice.  
“It was the potion,” Geralt said, clearing his hoarse throat, “I tried to tell you before I fell asleep.”  
“Well you did a pretty shit job of that!” Jaskier cried, slapping the Witcher’s arm. Geralt sucked in a breath through his teeth at the contact with his sore skin. “Sorry. Sorry,” Jaskier apologized.  
The bards cheeks and nose were pink from crying, and his lips were a swollen red from biting them. He looked like he’d sobbed every second Geralt had been asleep. The Witcher stared at him as Jaskier tried to assess Geralt’s wounds. Those pink lips, his lovely hands, the memory of the body he’d seen in his dream...his cock ached painfully at the thought. He wondered if he would ever be able to look at Jaskier normally again.

The went back into town to present the griffin head and collect their coin.  
In Geralt’s injured state, he really didn’t feel like sleeping on the ground that night, so they stopped at the inn. Besides, he could really, really use an ale.  
The Witcher had yet to stop thinking about the dream. Partly through their journey into town, his physical emblem of the effect of his dream had died down, unresolved. The pain of his scratches was nothing in comparison to the sexual denial he was having to exhibit.  
They tied up Roach outside, and ducked into the tavern.  
Jaskier had an ale with him and then made use of his lute, dancing around the room and singing a magnificent, slightly dramatized song about Geralt’s slaying of the griffin. He made a circle around the room, enthusiastically singing to each person until they forked over a coin. Eventually, the ballad would become a rendition of the ever-popular “ _Toss a coin to your Witcher_ …” Then Jaskier would make his final round for coin, and they would leave. Jaskier would probably buy a bath for Geralt; gods know he needed one.  
Geralt watched him act around the tavern, and he couldn’t help but to keep his thoughts from the dream.  
“ _Touch me, Geralt_ …”  
The Witcher gripped the mug of ale so tightly that his knuckles turned white as the memory replayed in his mind. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to look at the bard again without thinking of him the way he had seen him--or dreamt he’d seen him. He cursed the antidote silently.  
Jaskier met his eyes across the room, mid-song, and flashed him a smile.  
“... _Oh Valley of Plenty, Oh Valley of Plenty_ …”  
Geralt grit his teeth. That voice. Those pink lips. How he wanted to see them moan his name again. He wanted to relive his dream, but this time being able to move, so he could take Jaskier into his hands, and feel that soft skin against his. So he could kiss those lips that would moan softly instead of sing his praises. So he could grip his hair in his fist.  
The Witcher felt his situation downstairs return. He had to get out of this damn tavern.  
He realized the music had stopped. Jaskier slid into the seat next to him. Feeling the shoulder bump into his was almost too much for him to bear.  
“Not a bad night, eh?” Jaskier asked, “What did you think? I know that part about the griffin breathing fire was a little fabricated, but the rhyme was just too good to resist. You don’t mind, do you? Well, if you do, you shouldn’t. Lots of coins tossed to this grumpy Witcher, tonight.”  
Geralt let out a hot, heavy sigh. He was extremely distracted, and it was bothering him.  
“I want to take a bath,” he replied remotely.  
“Thank the gods. You need it.”

Geralt was able to conceal his throbbing erection until he was waist-deep in the tub. Jaskier poured a bucket of hot water over his head. The smell of lavender oil and griffin guts filled the room.  
Jaskier often bathed him, and Geralt didn’t mind. In fact, it was nice to have someone to comb through his hair and make sure it was clean. It was always annoying to pay for a bath and come away with knotted hair. But the bard would kneel behind him and hum as he combed loose all the tangles and dirt from the Witcher’s long, white hair.  
To reiterate, Geralt normally liked this. But as Jaskier ran his fingers through his hair now, quietly singing some unfamiliar tune, the Witcher could hardly stand it.  
Each touch was like another wave of adrenaline that he had to suppress in order to keep from grabbing Jaskier and having his way with him. His skin felt like it was lit aflame with sensitivity.  
“Stop it,” Geralt gritted out through his teeth.  
The fingers through his hair came to a halt. “Stop?”  
Geralt grunted.  
“Well, what’s the matter with you?” Jaskier walked around to stand in front of the tub.  
His lithe body standing before him made his face hot. He shut his eyes like one might do with a pounding headache.  
“Geralt, what’s wrong? Is it the griffin? I thought the antidote--”  
 _The antidote is the problem_ , he wanted to say. But he didn’t.  
“Talk to me, Mr. Silent and Stoic. What’s wrong?” Jaskier crouched in front of the tub with his hands resting on the sides. Without really thinking, the bard reached forward and pushed back a strand of white hair from Geralt's face.  
Before he could stop himself, the Witcher grabbed his wrist before he could retract it. Jaskier stared at him, eyes wide.  
“Geralt?” he asked carefully. “What are you doing?”  
For a moment, he stared at his companion, taking in his blue eyes and pink cheeks.  
Then, without a second more of hesitation, he pulled forward.  
“Geralt--!”  
The bard tumbled forward into the bath, landing to be chest-to-chest with Geralt. He looked up at the Witcher, eyes wide with shock, mouth partially hanging open, clothes soaked.  
“Did you just pull me, or did I fall?” Jaskier asked slowly, “Because if I fell, this is really, really embarrassing--” Suddenly, the bard’s full attention was directed towards something just below the surface; something jutting against his stomach. With an awkward chuckle Jaskier looked back up and weakly whispered, “You didn’t happen to bring your sword into the bath with you, did you?”  
“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, pulling him closer, to be nearly nose-to-nose with him, “I need you.”  
For a moment, the bard’s eyes desperately searched the Witcher’s face. Geralt could feel his heart pounding against his own chest. A long silence passed between them, rife with tension and need. Finally, the bard lifted a wet hand and pressed it against the other man’s cheek.  
“Then kiss me,” he whispered.  
So Geralt did.  
They pressed their lips together, firmly at first with the pressure and intensity of the building tension, then softening as they began to move, exploring each other’s mouths. Geralt held fast to the crook of Jaskier’s neck and positioned a hand beneath his chin to tip his head closer to him. Jaskier’s hands roamed, travelling across the washboard of Geralt’s abs and his chest.  
Soon, the Witcher began to trail his kisses downward, across the bard’s smooth chin and down his neck. Jaskier’s back arched, tipping his head up to the ceiling and moaning softly as Geralt began to unbutton his soaked tunic and slide it off, throwing it to the side of the tub. His trousers followed. He settled his hands on his sides.  
“Touch me, Geralt,” Jaskier said breathlessly, looking back down, his hair flung into his face, a red blush burning his cheeks. “Please.”  
With those magic words echoing the memory of his dream, Geralt slid his hands tantalizingly slowly down his back and over the curve of his ass, pushing two fingers into his tight hole. Jaskier’s made a sound like a gasp, inhaling sharply at the feeling. A shuddering sigh of pleasure escaped his lips.  
“Yes, yes, yes,” he begged, “Please, don’t tease me, Geralt!”  
“Jaskier…” came his breathless reply.  
He positioned his aching cock at the entrance, sliding out his fingers and immediately replacing them. Jaskier’s face went slack with the feeling of being filled, and the tight pressure around Geralt’s cock made him grit his teeth. Slowly, and with the Witcher’s help, the bard began to raise and lower himself on his throbbing cock, his own cock twitching with need and pressed against his belly.  
As Geralt began to pump his hips up into Jaskier, he wrapped a large hand around the bard’s cock and rushed his fist up and down it’s length.  
“Ah...Geralt, yes! Yes...Oh, harder!” he babbled, almost incoherent with pleasure. His mouth was open, frozen in a moan, his eyes shut tightly. His fingers dug into Geralt skin.  
After a few more bounces, Geralt came for what felt like almost an eternity. The Witcher squeezed Jaskier’s hips as his sight filled with stars. A long growl rumbled from deep in his throat. “ _Fuck_.”  
“Don’t stop! Please, for the love of--” Jaskier pleaded, Geralt having slowed his stroking during his release.  
The bard came mere seconds after the Witcher picked up the pace, stifling a cry of pleasure and panting. He shuddered for a few seconds, still clinging to Geralt’s shoulders as he came down from his high.  
Gently, the Witcher began to shift himself backwards, and Jaskier to rest against the other side of the tub.  
“Are you alright?” Geralt prompted.  
“I…” Jaskier panted, “I think you should kill more griffins.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably write fluff for them some other time but I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Thanks for reading!!!


End file.
